


On Wednesdays, We Roleplay

by bloodofthepen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Showdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle and Rumple get some time to themselves. Exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Wednesdays, We Roleplay

**Author's Note:**

> My Round 3 qualifying/winning entry in the 2014 Rumbelle Showdown, published under the name ‘Seren Meade’. 
> 
> Bracket Prompt: do not disturb, breakfast, his secretary
> 
> A/N: Inspiration came from a screencap that was circulating a while back—I’m sure you can guess which one. And as a warming, this fic includes boobs and sexytimes.

Bright and early, Mr. Gold opens the pawnshop.

Bright and early, his assistant has not yet arrived.

Bright and early, Mr. Gold is doing his own paperwork.

Bright and early, Mr. Gold is  _not very happy_.

It is true that his assistant has taken up the responsibility of the town library, but she hired another librarian for this very reason; she insisted that she wanted to continue with her position here twice a week to tend to the secretarial needs of the shop, knowing that he required someone a bit more… organized to keep the books effectively.

But it is Wednesday morning, and Ms. French is nowhere to be seen.

 

In fact, she is two hours past due, with Mr. Gold nearly ready to burn the ledger. Damn that girl, where the bloody hell—

The bell above the door tinkles and he raises his head.

“Ah, there you are,  _dearie_. I was beginning to suspect you’d decided to leave me to my own devices after all.” He strides around the counter, cane clicking on the floor, until he is hardly a foot away from the girl. “I trust you have a good reason for this delay?”

His mouth twitched slightly when she did not cower. Instead, Ms. French raises her chin and proudly meets his eyes. “There was an emergency at the library this morning, Mr. Gold, which required my attention.”

“And I suppose you just forgot how to use a phone?”

“I could say the same of you—if you were that worried, you might have called me. I could have burned to death by the time you bothered to find out what happened.”

That took him aback. “Burned?”

The woman crosses her arms. “ _Yes_. One of the back rooms caught fire, but I was able to put it out before we lost anything that couldn’t be replaced.

“I—you don’t seem injured—are you…?”

“No, and no one else got hurt, either. But I made sure I changed and came as soon as things were under control. Jefferson is tending the library today, and I’ll finish assessing the damage as soon as I’m finished here.

Mr. Gold’s grip shifts and tightens on his cane. “If you had only  _called_ , Ms. French…”

She brushed his words aside with a wave of her hand. “Just give me the ledger, Mr. Gold, and I’ll get to it.”

He purses his lips. “Of course.” He waved his hand toward the counter. “The ledger is there, Ms. French—I  _do_  hope I haven’t disturbed it beyond your ability to repair.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches the ledger in four neat strides. “I’m sure you haven’t.” She scoops it into her arms, eyes already flicking over the numbers. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

Mr. Gold attempts to busy himself with a box of new items—a couple of silk scarves, a gold chain, a pocket-watch—to no true avail.  _Guilt_  is not a distraction; there is no reason for it. Ms. French is well, and could very well have called if she did not want him concerned. Not that he had been concerned in the least.

For some reason, he finds himself in the back room, watching Ms. French frown over the ledger on the desk, pen pressed to her lips.

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

Her head snaps up. “Hm?”

Mr. Gold shifts uneasily, a firm grip on his cane. “With your little emergency this morning, it occurs to me that you may not have eaten breakfast.”

Ms. French sets the pen down slowly, letting it rest in the crease of the ledger. “No, I didn’t—I was rather concerned about getting over here.”

His eyes flick to the floor, suddenly unsure. “Ah. Well. If you had called—”

She frowns.

“—it doesn’t matter. Would you care to have breakfast now?”

Ms. French tilts her head. “With you?”

“If you’d rather wait until lunch—”

“No, no—breakfast would be lovely, but are you sure you want to close the shop?”

Mr. Gold arches his brows. “Who said anything about closing the shop?” He goes to the little refrigerator near the back door and draws a couple containers from it, including a little jar of jam. He holds them up for her to see. “Breakfast.”

“Oh—of course. I’d be glad to join you then, Mr. Gold.”

He sets the Tupperware on the coffee table and drags it in front of the sofa, removing the lids to reveal grapes, hard-boiled eggs, croissants, pecans, and a little knife.

She moves to stand beside him. “It’s almost like you planned it.”

Mr. Gold shrugs. “Well, let’s say it’s my apology for not checking up on you this morning. I really should have called instead of writing you off.”

She smiles—the first of the morning—and it is brilliant. She takes his hand and pulls him down to the sofa with her. “Thank you, Mr. Gold. I should apologize as well…  I really could have called you, especially after I’d gotten the fire put out.” Ms. French takes to slicing the croissants and spreading the jam, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the task. “I… well, honestly… I just wanted to see if  _you’d_  call.”

He almost thinks her cheeks have reddened.

“Why?”

She tries, but cannot seem to raise her eyes to his. “I thought… it would prove that you care.”

Mr. Gold fears his cheeks are warming to match hers. “I—er—why—?” He clears his throat, and wraps both hands around the handle of his cane. “I mean to say—of course I care what happens to you. Why that would concern you gives me pause.”

Ms. French appears to take a steadying breath and sets the knife and pastry aside. She raises her eyes to meet his and he fears he has gone too far in his feelings for her. He should have acknowledged them earlier, avoided this before she realized—

And then her lips were on his.

_Kissing him_.  _She was kissing him_.

By the time he had a mind to respond, she was already on the far side of the sofa. “I’m… sorry, Mr. Gold—I… should really get back to work.”

But he takes her wrist. “No—please. Unless you really want to, of course, I just—you caught me by surprise. I never thought—”

That seemed to be all she needed to hear and her mouth is on his again, fingers lacing in his hair and this time he responds in kind, wrapping an arm carefully around her waist—should she change her mind, she could easily shake him off.  But that did not seem to be anywhere in her mind as she presses closer, pushes one hand down to his lapel, pulls him closer, presses her tongue between his lips, and oh, gods, he’s not sure how much longer rational thought will be able to exist.

Not much longer, in fact, as the hand in his hair slides down his arm, presses her fingers around the ones still on the handle of his cane—fingers he’d never known to be quite so graceful, so light in their caresses around each of his, prying the cane from his hand so deftly he was not sure when or where it had gone.

He finds he does not care as she uses this advantage to haul him over her by both his lapels.

She’s panting now, with the effort, with arousal, her fingers finding the buttons of his jacket between them, catching his lip between her teeth, shoving the coat from his shoulders. He hisses when she moves her mouth to his neck, laving her tongue across his skin and his mind is gone—gone, gone with her fingers and her teeth and her lips and he caresses the skin of her cheek with his fingers, tangles them in her curls and—ah—his shirt is quite gone as well and Belle is working at the buttons of her blouse. “Help me,” she insists and he will not deny her.

Belle, Belle—when did he start thinking of her as Belle?

But her name is beautiful and it is the one thing that rings through his mind as they free her of her blouse and he presses his lips to her collarbone, tracing his tongue along its contours, her skin soft and sweet, her ragged breath ruffling his hair.

He finds the catch on her bra and moves his lips to her breast, pale and salt-sweet and her breaths become little cries, her fingers catching on his shoulders, in his hair, and she presses his head closer, one of her legs curling around his—

“Rumpelstiltskin!”

“ _Gods damn it_.”

“Rumple, no—”

The flames clenched in his fist become a swath of crimson smoke, and they are re-dressed. For a moment, he expects to be chastised—

“I’m going to kill them.”

Rumpelstiltskin nods. “Perhaps we can try a ‘do not disturb’ sign.”


End file.
